Reminiscence
by MagesticalCookie
Summary: All the times Keefe's mom hurt him. Warning for child abuse, depression, self-loathing.


" **Hairpin"**

KEEFE WAS WALKING HOME FROM ANOTHER MISERABLE DAY AT FOXFIRE.

He had expected to see Fitz that day at school, but he was disappointed. He had sat alone at lunch and study hall, and he couldn't escape fast enough when the day ended.

Unfortunately, it was like walking out of one nightmare to be caught up in another. The moment Keefe stepped through the doors of Candleshade, his family's large and extraordinarily tall house, he found himself face to face with his dad, Cassius.

At first nobody uttered a word. Then Cassius stared intensely into Keefe's eyes and spoke firmly.

"Son, I hear that you're not doing well in school. I expect you to pull your weight and try harder; the Sencen family needs to uphold its good reputation."

"Good? More like scary," Keefe muttered.

"Listen to me!" Cassius demanded.

"Dad, I can't just make people talk to me! What am I supposed to do, hold onto their legs and not let go?"

"Yet you talk to Fitz Vacker without any problems. It would be very good for this family if you made friends with that Vacker boy. Don't disappoint me."

"I would if he didn't keep disappearing!"

"I don't have time to listen to you whine. I need to leave now for a meeting in Luminaria—and this time, _listen_ to your mother when she explains why Gulon gas isn't safe for the dwarven carpet."

Keefe's eyes followed his dad through the glass doors. A sour expression was plastered to his face, but he didn't make an effort to remove it. He trudged to the stairs, deciding not to take the fast way up with the vortinator and sat on his bed. He flopped down on the sheets.

After a number of minutes he became restless, and his hands strayed to the photo frame he kept by his bed. It was a picture of him and Fitz smiling at Keefe's first midterms earlier this year, round prize bubbles floating about their heads.

"Why do you keep _disappearing,_ " he growled aloud.

He didn't know how long she'd been there, but suddenly his mother had walked in and sat on the edge of his bed. She glanced at the photo frame.

Keefe may not have been old enough to manifest as an empath like his dad, but he could still tell that something was up. She looked tense, eager, and slightly guilty all at the same time.

"Who did you say was disappearing, dear?" she asked.

He gave her a sideways look, but knew better than to argue. He saved that for his dad. However bad his mother was, Cassius was a hundred times worse.

"Fitz," he replied, too worn out to ask questions.

"Fitz Vacker?"

Keefe nodded.

"Do you know where he went, honey?"

Keefe found it odd that she was using terms of endearment. Either she really did love him more than he suspected— _nope, not possible,_ he thought—or she wanted something.

He didn't respond, just to see which reason it was.

It turned out to be the second.

"I need you to tell me," she insisted.

Keefe shrugged.

A moment later her face was less than a foot from his, and her eyes were blazing. "Tell. Me. Now."

Keefe tried to push himself back, but her sharp nails pinned his arms against the bedpost.

"Keefe," she said. "Don't make me regret this."

He could feel tears rising up behind his eyes, but he fought to keep them away. _I'm eleven, and I don't cry anymore,_ he told himself. His mother's fingernails dug deeper when he still didn't say anything.

Now she had taken her unusually long, sharp hairpin out, letting her loose blonde hair fall across her face. "Last chance," she told him.

"I—don't—know," Keefe got out through his panicked breathing. "He—doesn't tell me."

"You're lying." She took the pin and pressed the tip up against his cheek.

"No!" he screamed. "I'm not! I tried to ask him but he just avoided my questions and—"

He cut off. There was a searing pain, then he could feel something warm and wet running down the side of his face. A drop dripped off his cheek and onto his shirt. Blood.

He stared wildly at his mother, unbelieving. She looked, if anything, better than before. She was grimly smiling. "See, Keefe?" she said. "Never trust anyone. Take that from me."

"You just…" he mumbled.

"I know full well what I did, and I would do it again. Now, unless you want another cut, you'll kindly answer my question.

"I told you, I don't know where he goes!"

"We both know that's a lie. _Listen_ , Keefe. You'd do well to listen to your superiors. Your stupidity is going to get you killed some day."

Keefe shrunk down as far as he could go under her iron grip. "You're my mother," he said in shock. "You're my mother. Moms aren't supposed to hurt their children."

She snorted. "Spoken like a crybaby."

And then suddenly there was more pain. The hairpin was dragging down his other cheek, slowly, cutting into his flesh, deeper and deeper—

"Stop!" Keefe begged. "Just stop!"

The pain did not lessen. "Where does Fitz Vacker go in secret. This is your _final_ chance."

"I don't know!" Keefe screamed. "I DON'T KNOW!"

All at once the pain stopped. When his mother spoke again, she sounded disappointed. "You really don't, do you." She wiped the bloody pin on Keefe's bedsheet and put her hair back up again like nothing had happened.

"The washers will be here soon," she told him. "You'll be glad to know that this is the last time I'm going to cut you. You're getting old enough for it to be risky."

"Last… time?" Keefe repeated. A sudden and wild anger overtook him. He struck out blindly, barely suppressing another scream. "You did this before?"

Lady Gisela rolled her eyes. "Of course. It was necessary to the plan."

"I HATE YOU!" His fist made contact with her face, and she dropped back to cover it with her hands. Keefe jumped up and made a run for the door. It was so close, he could make it. He felt the blood from his cheeks dripping onto the fancy carpet, but he didn't care. Five meters, four, three—

The door swung open. A shadowy figure emerged, just as the opening door slammed into Keefe's jaw. He fell backward, onto the ground, knowing he had no chance. No chance of escaping, no chance of saving his memory…

No chance of remembering what his mom really was, beneath all the makeup and fancy clothing.

A monster.

The added pain from Keefe's jaw made black spots dance before his eyes. The figure stepped over him, quietly watching.

"Did he know?" the stranger asked.

"No." Keefe's mom sighed. "Gethen, I need you to wipe his memories,

then speak to Alvar. I have reason to suspect we're not the only ones searching."

 _Alvar?_ Keefe's fading mind wondered what Fitz's older brother had to do with this. Alvar was his hero… Alvar was…

The figure reached his hands to Keefe's temple, and his mind went dark.

Keefe rose from his bed and stretched. Morning light was filtering in through the blinds, and his gloomy mood from yesterday when his dad had reprimanded him was gone. Today was the ultimate splotching contest—Fitz would definitely be there for that. Keefe had heard all about his epic performance as a first year. He'd been moved up all the way to the third year bracket!

Keefe got changed and headed downstairs. His mother was sorting through some old files.

He vaguely wondered why he felt a dim ache in his jaw at the sight of her. But he pushed it aside as unimportant.

"Good morning, Keefe," she said absentmindedly as he set course to the kitchen.

"'Morning, mom," he responded, smiling to himself. His dad never said good morning to him. He couldn't help but feel a tiny bit of fondness for the better parent in his life. However bad she was, his father would always be worse.


End file.
